



G3piglrtN"__/52ZL 



CiffiflRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE CITY SLEEPS 

By 

CHARLES MULFORD ROBINSON 

u 

Author of 

"Modern Civic Art" "Rochester Ways" 

"The Improvement of Towns 

and Cities" etc. etc. 




THE CORNHILL COMPANY 
BOSTON 



-pS^^ 



K- 






Copyright 1920 

by 

The Cornhill Company 



m\ -7 1321 
§)Ci.A6l4360 



r 



Selections from the 

writings of Charles Mulford Robinson 

presented in loving memory 

by his wife 

Eliza T. E. P. Robinson 



CONTENTS 

Page 

The City Sleeps 3 

Sed Ministrare 5 

The Song of Peace ........ 11 

Eden Regained 14 

Greeting the New Year 16 

Love in Venice 18 

Serenade from "Dream Camp" .... 20 

A Serenade 21 

To Love 22 

The Violin 23 

Christmas Presents 24 

First Love 27 

To These Lines 28 

My Country 30 

Moving 32 

Lullaby . 34 

Christmas Hymn 36 

Sunday School Christmas Song .... 37 

Easter Carol 39 

Traveling 40 

Street Car Horse . 42 

Lent 44 

New Year's Resolutions 46 

New Year's 47 

Christmas 48 

Class Day Poem 50 

[ix] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Grandmother's Ball Dress 54 

A Ballad of the Sea 5Q 

The Fields of Flanders 58 

The Danube 59 

Riverside Drive 60 

The Sky-Scraper 61 

The Upland Meadow . 63 

Hymn for Children's Day 65 

The Big Trees in Muir Woods, California 66 

Sun Rise 67 

Perfect Love 68 

Winnie Davis 69 

The Waltz 71 

ARag-Bag 72 

The Tireless Sentinel 74 

When Phyllis is in Town 76 

Going Away 78 

The Reply 80 

Premeditated Suicide 82 

Kissing 84 

Autumn Days and Dawn 86 

Alumni and Commencement 88 

The Look of Love 90 

Her Opal Ring 91 

To My Love 92 

A Lunar Telephone 93 

My Castle 94 

With Some Roses 95 

[x] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



The New Year 96 

Sunset 99 

Idol Repairing 100 

Vacations 102 

Summer and Laziness 104 

Paths (Footprints) , 106 

Trees and Spring Foliage 108 

The Pen .110 

The Maid of the Mist Ill 

The Wind on the Prairie 112 

Stars 113 

The Four Winds. . 114 

October- Walking, Sunsets and Death . 116 

Hope and the New Year 118 

Summer and Autumn 120 

October 122 

Easter and Christmas 124 

Longevity, Age and Death . . . . . 127 

Tombs 129 



[xi] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE CITY SLEEPS 

The city sleeps and dreams, and dreams are sweet. 
How dark and still the street! 

At peace the citizens all silent lie; 

There is no restive eye; 

The breath is calm, no hurried feet go by, 
Night falls, and rest is sweet. 

The strife and struggle of the garish day, 
The world of work and play, 

The turmoil and the fighting — all is past. 

Nor loves nor hates outlast 

The wondrous shadow of the truce that's cast 
When night puts all away — 

As if the citizens were only boys 

Grown tired of tasks and toys, 

And seeking loving mother's knee, that there. 

With bedtime kiss and prayer. 

They might forget the daylight's little care 

And surfeiting of joys. 

[3] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



peaceful stars, compassioning, watchful eyes, 

Make low the lullabies 

That in vast unison the planets sing; 

Let them wake not, nor bring 

Too soon the pitiless, mad dawn on wing 

That, gleaming, stirs the skies! 

And thou, pale moon, pass on with silent tread - 

Thou'st seen the world to bed. 

Do ye, mild winds, snuff out her little light 

With big clouds, soft and white. 

As she upon the sleeping world shuts tight 

The door, her "good night" said. 

And ye, black rivers, rolling to the sea. 
Roll on most quietly. 

Lest ye may wake the city, lying still, 

Unconscious of the ill 

Or good the morrow may bring forth to fill 
Its cup, — blest mystery! 

And last, Father of the world, look down 
With smile, and not with frown. 

And bless the city proud and rich and great. 

Forgot is its estate. 

In childlike innocence, immaculate. 
It sleeps — Thy peace its crown! 

[4] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



SED MINISTRARE 

i 

When heroes died in olden days, 

Valkyries, hov'ring o'er the fight. 
Received the knights with love and praise, 

And courage came into its right. 
Nor passed there with each chieftain dead 

So much of bravery out of earth. 
The sons of men, by mem'ry fed. 

Required not other brav'ry's birth; 
They fought like sons, and fought as men 

Who would leave sons to fight again. 

For when a hero thus has passed. 

Immortalized by tale and song. 
Earth has not known of him the last: 

In battle's front he still is strong 
To point the way and do the deed. 

Inspiring by the part he played. 
He's present, in the hour of need. 

To quicken pulse that is afraid. 
So sire still fights in arm of son 

And sons can do, for sires have done. 

And there were some who even thought 
That swords, which heroes might not take 

[5] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



To far Valhalla, yet had caught, 

And held, for their new owners' sake, 
The spirit that had made of old 

Their masters brave. And so the son 
Was doubly strong and doubly bold 

Whose sword had other battles won. 
He was, than single hero, more. 

Since one was in the sword he bore. 

Then came the time when Christ was born 

'Mid lihes' beauty, o'er the sea. 
When death lay dead at Easter morn 

And love was strong through Galilee. 
Then swords were sheathed and peace was dear, 

And something else than brutal might — 
A baby's smile, a woman's tear, 

A strong man's honor — settled right. 
To God, to country, and oppressed 
Was service of the sword addressed. 

And now in novel form was wrought 

The hilt which rose o'er sheath and sword. 
The lesson that the Master taught 

Was seized in spirit, and adored. 
A cross he grasped who drew his blade; 

And in that sign of sacrifice, 
Of love, and pity, there was made 

Reminder, that with honor dies 

[6] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



He only who has spent to aid 

Just cause his life, or drawn his blade. 

So rose the shout of "Holy War," 

And knighthood, roused by preacher's cries. 
Puts spurs to steed, that nevermore 

Should Pagan hold the place where lies 
The tomb in which, in sleeping death, 

The Prince of Peace had found his rest. 
There Saracen wrought fearful death; 

But thrice the knights returned, since blest, 
Who won or died, was he whose blade 
Was stained with blood of a crusade. 

And if he died they bore him home. 

And while his lady wept sad tears 
They carved his image on his tomb 

And crossed the legs, that through the years 
All men might know that here one lay 

Who had been brave, and quick to hear 
The Christ-call that was far away; 

And so, without reproach or fear. 
Gave up his life. To-day men read 
And honor still the knightly deed. 



As setting sun still gilds or paints, 

With rnHHv hiip nr farlinxy hlnsli 



3 seximg sun stm guas or paints, 

With ruddy hue or fading blush, 

he earth's last point — what spire of saints, 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Or tower of king, or dome, it touch — 
So, with Uke glow in hearts of men, 

Though centuries have rolled between. 
We see the love of God again 
And men as brave as they have been; 
As quick to hear in hour of need 
Crusader's call to knightly deed. 

Why, then, turn back to other times 

And why seek courage in the grave? 
Does love know aught of years and climes, 

Has pity ceased, are men less brave? 
Behold how soon a nation's heart 

Responds to suif 'ring's strain and sigh. 
As once to tears of slav'ry's mart, 

Again we raise a ringing cry: 

Christ died to make men better; we 
As twice before will make men free I 

The ancients thought that men of war 

Still loved in death to watch the fight. 
Or that a sword which hero bore 

Was stronger for another's might. 
So now, in our own time, we know 

That sires and grandsires blessings give 
To those love-roused to strike the blow 

That makes men free and bids them live. 

[8] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Again in history's stirring page 
Is youth's reveille blown by age. 

Those men who fired the shot world-heard, 

That here men should for aye be free; 
And those who wrote the magic word 

In blood, where Southern slaves could see — 
The past and present, ev'ry bar 

Of crimson on our flag, is shout 
To rise once more in freedom's war ; 

To throw the ancient banner out. 

Ourselves, and those we bound, made free; 
Our swords shadl serve humanity. 

How fair through all the years have gazed. 

With sweet and tender smile, those saints 
Whom painters drew, when art was raised 

And heaven, loving him who paints. 
Drew back her veil! Not now in line 

Unconscious of perspective's claim 
We paint; and yet we note how fine 

Their skill. Their soul makes just their fame. 
They saw so much we marvel yet 
And look beyond what they forget. 

Time changes spirit of crusade 
As it does art — in form. The rest 

[9] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Is love, is soul. We still grasp blade 

In wish our Saviour's grave to wrest 
From hands unholy. Not of stone 

The tomb we find. If ere there be 
A heart that breaks, a needless moan, 
There seek we Christ, assured that He 
Counts him a hero, dubs him knight. 
Who strives another's wrong to right. 

So, when the clarion bugles call. 

When soft words fail, and men must gain 
With sword, right, freedom, truth, and all 

That makes life full — then, then, again 
Comes brave reply. The swords leap forth; 

The heroes of Valhalla speak ; 
The cry of "Holy War" rings forth, 

For now Christ-crucified, we seek! — 
A nation lifts twice hallowed blade; 
The world salutes a fourth crusade! 



[10] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE SONG OF PEACE 

Isaiah: XXYI, 3. 

A prophet, taking up a harp, leaned over it, 
And thumbed sweet music from its strings. 
And sang these words, in half unconscious revery, 
Which God's own angel whispered in his soul: 

"Him Thou 
Wilt keep in perfect peace whose mind is stayed 

on Thee." 

The passing breezes caught the words and bore 

them on 
Their wings, the field flowers bent their heads at 

hearing them. 
The brook inserted them into its song, and dried 
Leaves whirling on its restless tide knew peace must 

come. 
The forest trees repeated it in mighty song, 
The rivers bore the message to the peaceless sea. 
And ocean pounded out on rocky shore, "Him Thou 
Wilt keep in perfect peace whose mind is stayed 

on Thee." 

fill 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



A weary trav'ler paused to lay his burden down, 
And saw the heav'ns don their sable robes of cloud 
To mourn the day, and fallen leaves float silent on 
The stream which flowed, hke time, unceasingly. 

He sighed; 
But while he lingered, lo! a glory in the West, 
The red and gold of setting sun; and he could see 
The grasses bend to whispered words divine — 

"Him Thou 
Wilt keep in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on 

Thee." 

Love walked through shady paths where, far above, 

the trees. 
Like love, hold hands in silent ecstacy and hide, 
With leaify boughs, the beating hearts beneath. 
Then slowly in the ev'ning sky the lovers* moon 

arose 
And pierced the tracery with light, and saw the tears 
Which fall when love remains and hope has died. 

To earth 
Its pale beams fell in tears of sympathy. 
And swaying branches sang this requiem: "Him 

Thou 
Wilt keep in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on 

Thee." 

[12] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



A poet wand'ring restless on the ocean beach 
Beheld the stars. God's beacons, gleam out singly in 
The sky's blue deeps; and saw in each far distant 

hght 
An unfilled dream of youth, a goal still unattained 
And mourning cried, "Ah, life is but a peaceless 

sea;" 
When, lo! He heard the ocean chant the words: 

"Him Thou 
Wilt keep in perfect peace whose mind is stayed 

on Thee." 

The dying sun, the moon, the stars repeat the words 
To youth and age, to sorrow and to wearied hope, 
And send, on beams of light, the message which the 

breeze 
Had caught from trembling strings of prophet's 

harp and borne 
In endless cycle through the restless world, "Him 

Thou 
Wilt keep in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on 

Thee." 



[13] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



EDEN REGAINED 

A poet wrote of that lost Paradise 

Which deeply veiled in ancient shadow lies. 

With mournful verse and sad regret, he told 

The tale of Eden, closed by sins of old. 

But as he ceased his verse, a hope broke through — 

Perhaps there's yet an Eden, — strive anew! 

We know, indeed, the angel, Eden left. 
Enjoined the heav'nly chorus he'd bereft 
And later woke the world on Christmas morn 
With "Peace, Goodwill on earth; the Christ is 

born!" 
Hence men may seek for Eden not in vain 
Since Christ, in coming, op'ed its gates again. 

In manger bare where infant Christ-child lies 

Men seek and find again their Paradise. 

Our hope still centers on that tiny form, 

That Baby- voice which rules the wind and storm; 

Which bids the heavy-ladened rest 

And find the Eden of the poet's quest. 

Why, else, brought wise men presents afar? 
Why shone o'er Bethlehem that wondrous star.'* 

[141 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Who was it died, that came not to destroy? 
What is it gives to burning martyrs joy? 
Oh, Light divine, with holy sacrifice. 
Thou hast, indeed, brought back our paradise. 

Dear Eden of the poets, fair wert thou; 

But fairer is the Eden granted now. 

Like Enoch, we must toil its joys to win 

Yet, at the end, we, too, shall enter in. 

A bird we, too, may find ; but ours the dove. 

Flown from God's throne, in symbol of His love. 

"Still Eden's choirs through all our music sing; 
Still Eden's scents to all our blossoms cling; 
Still Eden's voices through our poets flow; 
Still Eden's colors on our canvas glow;" 
For all we find that's most divine in men 
Just proves Christ in us; Eden is our's again! 



[15] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



GREETING THE NEW YEAR 

Hope and gladness 

Banish sadness 
Father Time's new child is born. 

Heir of ages, 

He presages 
BriUiant noon to follow morn. 

Soft the pillows, 

Snowy billows. 
Where he Kes, all pure and fair. 

Winds are singing 

Blessings bringing, 
Fruit of Old Year's dying care. 

Stars were bending 

Low, pretending 
Guard to keep about the child. 

Darkness flying 

Old Year dying 
Dawn has kissed him, Day has smiled. 

Let us greet him, 
Smiling meet him; 
Welcome, New Year, born to-day I 

[16] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Great past stories 
Mean new glories, 
Thou shalt higher lead our way. 

Hope sustaining, 

Fear disdaining, 
We accept thy promise bright. 

Old Year's crosses. 

Griefs and losses. 
All were buried yesternight. 

Wondrous birthday ! 

Justly mirth day. 
For the world begins anew I 

Hail him, crown him. 

Naught shall down him. 
Here's to New Year! Joy to you I 



[17] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



LOVE IN VENICE 

Love, on this summer night, thou at my side, 
Trusting our gondolier, slowly we glide. 
Silent the stars shine out, throbbing with love, 
O'er us Venetian wsJls tower far above. 

Rocked on the water's breast, where gleam like gold 
Tears that the stars have dropped for years of old, 
Bridging eight hundred years, we two, alone, 
Guess what the stars have seen — caie for each stone. 

Splendid old palaces! Dim they appear. 
Night hides their ancient fronts, clouds shed a tear, 
Winds kiss the marble brows where sunbeams played, 
Where love through bright eyes shone and gladness 
made. 

Now all in gloom is still, fair years have died. 
Night drops her mourning veil; soft winds have 

sighed. 
But on their hng'ring sigh, list. Love, a breath 
Whispering, "love is here — love fears not death!" 

Under the Bridge of Sighs, see how we came 
Out on the broad lagoon — life is the same 
Past the dark prison walls, narrow the way — 
Love comes! Behold, our stream widens, a bay! 

[18] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Now the old palaces no longer loom 
Over our dainty bark, casting a gloom. 
Far off they faintly show where love had been; 
But here the star-gemmed waves hold thee, my 
queen! 



[19] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



SERENADE FROM "DREAM CAMP" 

Softly retreating the shadows, 
Chasing each other at will, 
Flee from the stab of the moonbeam 
Playing on casement and sill. 

Silently fly, oh, ye shadows! 

Silently dance, oh, ye beams! 

There a fair maiden is sleeping. 

There my beloved one dreams. 

Gently the breezes are blowing. 
Bending the trees as they pass. 
Softly the dew, in descending. 
Kisses the flowers and the grass. 

Silently faU, oh, ye dewdrops! 

Silently blow, gentle breeze! 

There a fair maiden is sleeping — 

Quietly bend, oh, ye trees! 



[20] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



A SERENADE 

Gentle breeze of ev'ning, hasten thou to bring 
Sweetest slumber, brightest visions, while I sing. 
Whisper sweet, with dream words, in my loved one's 

ear 
That she sleepeth safely for her lover's near, — 
Yes, in deep dreams murmur stilly that her lover's 

near. 

Shining stars of heaven, golden orbs of night, 
Be her pure protectors with thy softened Ught. 
Gently rest, my loved one; sleep till day doth break, 
Stars are bending o'er you — watching, wide awake. 
Heaven itself a guard is keeping — keeping till you 
wake. 

Sweetly slumber, loved one, happy dreams be thine. 
Angels whisper softly of this love of mine. 
Dream of fairy castles, dream of joy untold, 
Dream until the dawning paints the East with gold; 
Dream, and know on waking that only half was told. 



[21] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



TO LOVE 

Hail to Love as it enters now, 
Welcome Love, welcome Love! 
May it strong and tender grow — 
Gentle breezes ever blow. 
May it trouble never know, 
Hail to immortal love! 

Welcome love! welcome love! 
Hail to immortal love! 

ChoTUS 

Hail to love in its purity. 
Welcome love, welcome love. 
May it firm, confiding be. 
May it bind in sympathy, 
Then 'twill keep its majesty, 
Hail to immortal love! 

Welcome love! welcome love! 
Hail to immortal love! 

Chorus 



[22] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE VIOLIN 

"There is a tradition that as the mother of Paga- 
nini was dying he held his vioHn to her hps to receive 
her last breath, and that always in the tones of that 
instrument thereafter he heard the voice of his 
mother." We should like to think that the spirit of 
a loved one were sighing through the chords of every 
violin. There is no instrument so plaintive, so 
pathetic and almost human as the violin. In its 
beautiful quivering notes, its long drawn sighs, or 
the wild abandon of its spirit there is something more 
than the throbs of an instrument. It is the hardest 
instrument to master, but one that the whole world 
loves, for the something that breathes through it, 
that sighs and sings through the quivering strings 
and appeals to the heart of man. 



[23] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



CHRISTMAS PRESENTS 

A great deal has been written and said about the 
degeneration of Christmas through the lavish inter- 
change of costly presents. The extravagance of the 
age, we hear, has ruined the spirit of Christmas; 
and a few pessimistic persons think to make them- 
selves notable by deploring the existence of any 
Christmas at all. With long faces they cry that they 
have so many friends that Christmas quite ruins 
them, you know. Poor things! They are the ultra- 
fashionable to whom amusement is a bore, exertion 
a hardship, and acquaintances a nuisance. But 
the complaint does not stop there. Parents bewail 
the fact that their children want $4 toys instead of 
candy-canes or 25-cent pieces; and that the modern 
Christmas costs a great deal more than the Christ- 
mas of thirty or forty years ago. But it is no less 
Christmas. Indeed if one were to go way back to 
the first Christmas day he would find the Christmas 
of to-day more like that than were the celebrations 
of a generation ago. What if our presents are costly, 
are they more so than those that the wise men 
brought from the East? What if the music in our 
churches is extravagant in its beauty, is it as beautiful 
as the song of the angels on the first Christmas day? 

[24] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



And what if we do show our love for dozens of friends, 
did not the angels proclaim good will to men — all 
men? The first Christmas is the only model that 
the world has got, but because our celebrations are 
costly and elaborate now, and consist in more than 
eating and drinking, we cannot say that the spirit is 
lost. But you long-faced pessimists, who find your- 
selves ruined by the purchase of silver-backed hair 
brushes, and souvenir spoons for your dozens of 
friends, and who look upon Christmas merely as a 
distorted product of fashion's whim, caring nothing 
for its religious origin, suppose you consider the day 
in a worldly manner and compare its "degeneration" 
to the changes in the rest of the world. Is not life 
more expensive than forty years ago? If your chil- 
dren have the very good taste to prefer a $4 talking- 
doU to a ten-cent-candy-cane is it not due to their 
bringing up? Yes, you may flatter yourselves that 
you have trained them well. They prefer watches 
that go, diamonds to paste, and sparrows' brains to 
sparrows' wish-bones! Christmas has only changed 
with the rest of the world, and if you lack the Christ- 
mas spirit, it is your fault, not the world's. And if 
you buy presents handsomer than you can afford 
you are no whit better than he who lives beyond his 
means, and runs into debt for a tandem to be like 
Thomas, Richard, or Harry Van de Couter Smyjth. 



[25] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



You deserve to be miserable. The poor do not want 
your costly presents, and the very rich can afford to 
ignore the cost, if only love, — ^the hardest thing for 
the rich to buy, — goes with it. In his last "Easy 
Chair" in Harper's, and almost in its last words, 
George William Curtis said, "You cannot buy 
Christmas at the shops, and a sign of friendly sym- 
pathy costs Httle." The great mass of people know 
this and never dreamed of buying Christmas. It is 
only a little coterie of the would-be fashionables who, 
worshiping money, find that its Christmas bank- 
rupts Croesus, and cries for a reform. Use as much 
common sense in your Christmas as you use in other 
things, and even if Christmas does not prove a bless- 
ing, it will not prove a bore. 



[26] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



FIRST LOVE 

And so youVe come back to me, dearest of dears! 
The months of your absence have seemed to me years, 
But now we're together we never will part; 
You're mine and I'm yours. Take your place at my 
heart. 

How pretty you are in your dainty white dress I 
Such beauty I did not suspect, I confess, 
Of course your fair spirit and heart I well knew, 
But, d£irling, your beauty is external too. 

The Httle gold threads that figure your gown. 
Your straight little back and yom* little gold crown 
Are ravishing, deeir; and I know that you'll be 
The talk of the town till it's jealous of me. 

Each thought in your being, each word you would 

say, 
Is yet what I think and just what I'd say; 
And so, though you're silent, I hear; and I look 
With joy at you, darling — my first printed book. 



[27] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



TO THESE LINES 

Good-bye, dear child. A pleasant trip ! 

I would that I went too. 
But don't come back again, I beg — 

Home's no place for you. 

Go, see New York. I pay the bill, 
And here's your homeward fare. 

But if they'll keep you in the town, 
Just stay — for I shan't care! 

And you'd best stay; for if you don't, 
To Boston you shall go. 
And if you then come back again — 
To Phila., which is slow. 

And then to busy towns out West 

You'll go all travel worn. 
You'll sorry be if you return 

To mock me with their scorn! 

I'd like to make these trips myself — 

Rejoice that I send you. 
But when you meet the editor. 

Oh, mind each p. and q. 

[28] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Good-bye. Be good, be bright; 

Stand steady on your "feet". 
Seem clever, wise, and don't come back 

Win fame and fortune. Sweet I 



[29j 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



MY COUNTRY 

My country, 'tis of thee, 
With signs on every tree. 

Of thee I sing. 
Land where our fathers died 
Ere cure-alls loud were cried 
From every mountain side, 

As now they ring. 

My native country, thee, 
Land of the lettered tree. 

Thy words I love. 
I love thy liver pills, 
Thy woods with cures for ills, 
My heart in rapture thrills 

For purer blood. 

Specifics swell the breeze 
And ring from all the trees 

In morbid song. 
And Heinz's beans stay baked, 
Pabst beers Milwaukee make. 
And rocks their silence break 

To right what's wrong. 

[SO] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Three Sss for the blood, 
Sapolio cleaning mud — 

What things I read I 
Long have thy children cried 
"Castoria" from barn side — 
Oh, country, with what pride 

I view thy greed! 



[31] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



MOVING 

Moving is one of those things in which a very 
Kttle goes a great way. The weather has been 
perfect, and movers are thankful for that. It is 
one of those little things, like "the last straw," that 
does not seem of prime importance, and yet has ever 
so much influence. A tragedy in the sunshine of 
high noon is never quite so dreadful as in a dismal 
rain or at murky night; and moving is very like a 
tragedy. It is most distressing to tear down one's 
Lares and Penates ; realize how one's interests, aims, 
and affections change — even one whose boast is 
consistency — and to see the dust that has gathered 
on the back side of some of those dear things ! And 
it gives one a pang to see the sifted out and newly 
burnished household gods away from their old house- 
hold, out of their environment; and a heartache to 
visit again that cleared out shell that was once — 
whether amid palaces or ever so humble — home. 
It makes you feel so like a really homeless wanderer. 
And then it is dreadful to have to wear dusty clothes 
and have dirty hands and face for days, to eat pie 
on a trunk, and search two houses for a hair brush, to 
spend the restful evening hours on a stepladder 
hammering nails —both finger and tenpermy; and 

[32] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



to tear up old letters. At night, these fair May 
nights, one who has moved feels like a transplanted 
tree, with just about as many limbs as a tree ought 
to have, and all of them weary. 



[33] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



LULLABY 



While the stars are all blinking, the tree tops all nod, 

And the mother sings low to her love. 

Then the baby-moon sleeps with its head on a cloud 

And the angels bring dreams from above: 

Then the wind whispers low as it hm*ries along, 

And it covers the Uttle moon tight, — 

But she peeks from the clothes, for she loves the 

wind's song 
And she throws to the earth a "Good Night." 

Sleep well, little moon, on your soft downy bed 
For the night so soon passes away. 
And the wee candle-star that now shines at your head 
Will go out with the coming of day! 

II 

There's a fair little child that is falling asleep 

While the moon lies so still on the sky, 

And the same angels guard o'er the two sleepers keep 

And the wind sings the same lullaby. 

But the angels must cherish the Httle child best 

For they speak in the dear mother-kiss, 

[34] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



And the songs which she sings to the child on her 

breast 
Are something the baby-moons miss. 

Sleep well, little child, while the mother is near, 
For too soon you'll outgrow lullabies, 
And it won't be so easy to shut out all fear 
When then closing your tired little eyes. 



[35] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



CHRISTENING HYMN 

For J. A. S. 

Jan. 12, 1908. 

Jesus, Saviour dear, 

Thou wast once a child. 

Thou dost love the little children, 

In Thine arms Thou'st held and blest them 

Lo, a child waits here! 

Bless her Jesus dear — 

See, we hold her up I 

As of old Thou blest the children 

Put Thine arms around this baby — 

Bless her. Saviour dear! 

Jesus, Saviour dear, 

When a little Son 

Think how guarding Mother loved Thee, 

Yet God kept his watch above Thee — 

Guide this little one. 



[36] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



SUNDAY SCHOOL CHRISTMAS SONG 

In a lowly manger, far across the sea, 
Lay the baby Jesus, on His Mother's knee. 
In His home above us greatly must He love us 
To have come to earth a Uttle babe to be. 

Chorus 

Christmas, happy Christmas, 

This our birthday song: 
Let us be good children 
And do nothing wrong. 

Wise men came to visit baby Jesus fair. 

Kings gave birthday presents when they saw Him 

there. 
Angels sang above Him. All the angels love Him; 
We must show the baby Jesus that we care. 

Chorus 

In the lowly manger baby Jesus lay 
As a Christmas present to the world that day. 
Never was He dearer, yet He was no nearer 
Than He always is when little children pray. 

Chorus 

[37] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Little Christmas Jesus, once a child like me, 
Help me to be loving, good, and kind like Thee; 

Always to be pleasant, 

That shall be my present 
For the baby Jesus on His mother's knee. 

Chorus 

Christmas, happy Christmas, 

This our birthday song: 
We will be good children 
And do nothing wrong. 



[38] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



EASTER CAROL 

Death is conquered, love has triumphed, 
Storm old death with fairest flowers; 
Raise aloft the Easter chorus: 
Death is conquered, Christ is for us, 
Living, ever He is ours I 

White clad Easter lilies whisper 

Glorious hopes the angels gave: 
Trusting wholly, fear defying, 
Love Uves on through pain and dying, 

Christ is risen from the grave ! 

Winter passes, spring is with us, 
Flowers are pushing where was snow, 

Still love conquers. Shout the chorus: 
Death is vain since Christ is for us, 
Christ who triumphed long ago I 



[39] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



TRAVELING 

A writer says that no one outside of a railroad 
ticket office can have any idea of the number of 
* 'mental travelers" that there are, of the mental 
trips that one's friends and neighbors are constantly 
taking in one direction or another by means of time 
tables and free guides. The collecting of railroad 
literature becomes a mania with some, and they 
study the pamphlets, excursion books, and so on 
with a detail that gives them as complete and per- 
fect a knowledge of the places they visit only in their 
minds as though they had actually been there. — 
"They can discourse fluently upon the hotels and 
principal sights of the city, even tell you of the trains 
and the connections they make, or describe the small 
stations through which they passed in going there. ^' 
And what a delightful way to travel it is, to be sure! 
No heat, no dust, no missed connections. And so 
cheap. The trains are never late, unless you wish 
that they would be; and a seat in a drawing room 
car costs you no more than a seat in the day coach. 
You may eat what you please at the stations, or go 
into the dining car. You never have to wait for a 
place, and never have to leave anything for lack of 
time. Your trunks are always on the train with you, 

[40] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



the weather is always perfect. You have the most 
beautfiul views, get vistas of curving track that you 
never would see on a real train, and can drive to the 
hotel in a carriage. You are even better off than 
Peter Ibbetson with the beautiful Duchess of Towers, 
for he must have had rain sometimes, though he 
could not feel it ; while you cannot even see it. Who 
that can make of his easy chair a private car, to 
carry him whither he pleases, would care to board a 
stuffy, crowded, joggling, dusty, real railroad coach 
and pay for the privilege? Oh, wise and happy 
travelers, to whom change of scene is so much easier 
than change of air, travel far and merrily, for the 
world is yours, and be envied of those dull, unimagi- 
native persons who are restless but can only see 
things, combinations of matter, and whose spirits 
their bodies truly imprison. 



[41] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



STREET CAR HORSE 

The passing of the horse, his disappearance as a 
motive power, has been sadly overlooked. The pean 
of the still plodding tow path mule has been sung, 
the obituary of the last horse car has been written, 
the memorial of the stage coach, horses, and driver 
has been penned; but who has thought to commemo- 
rate in fitting words or deeds the retirement from our 
streets of the last car horse? It is a task for better 
pen than ours. We would not have back the car 
horse now. The supple, spineless, unfeeling electric 
fluid is a thousand times better than he, and yet 
how we miss the lazy trot of the horse, his patient 
amble, the gentle tinkle of his little beU, the un- 
dressed look of his puffing sides — as unadorned 
with harness as a dancer's limbs with skirts! And 
what a gentle beast he was! It was a sight to draw 
the tears of men and angels to see him strain at 
starting, but once the car was rolling how chipperly 
he skipped along! Few fancy steps were his, but 
there were no loiterings by the way side, there was 
no nibbling of grass and bark. Thoughtful and yet 
happy at the consciousness of duty done, his very 
face was an inspiration to us questioning, grumbling, 
dissatisfied human laborers. In the straight and 

[42] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



narrow path he trotted on, hardened to all the noises 
of the street, taking torpedoes on the track and flying 
switches with unruffled grace — without ambition, 
without discouragement, his passage through our 
thoroughfares could not, indeed, be called rapid 
transit, nor was it the transit of Venus, but certainly 
it was a providentially arranged transitory embodi- 
ment, for the teaching of mankind, of abstract 
patience! 



[43] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



LENT 

The deeper, more serious side of Lent is one to be 
felt, not written of. Society has discovered the 
season's utilitarianism and for forty days makes 
piety fashionable from rational rather than emotional 
motives. But there is a good deal of the latter, and 
as the days are kept in quietness, abstinence and 
thought, does not the true Lenten spirit creep where 
we thought the shadow lay alone? And something 
of the holy calm comes into the soul tired with worldly 
gaiety, comes in so still and slowly that we can 
scarcely say just when it comes or how it goes. The 
wild rush of hfe ; the stampede for honor, riches, and 
position; is sHghtly lessened. The momentum of 
the year's tmrmoil, race, and struggle bears us on- 
ward for a while, but without adequate further im- 
petus it lessens, and into the blessed calm of Passion 
week the most unecclesiastical of us shps without 
serious jar. SeK-communion in an easy chair is a 
great restraining power, and the feet that sped over 
waxen floors turn readily to the straight and narrow 
path, and mansions in the sky take the place in 
thought of dream castles in dreamy Spain. A little 
inward reflection reveals an inward world greater, 
grander, more important than the world to which 

[44] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



we give so many of our days, of our waking and sleep- 
ing thoughts, and it is almost a pity that the forty 
days of Lent should be so brief. But we are in the 
world for action, and so we must return to the work 
and world; and Lent — ^in the cycle of the months — 
is but a reminder that the work must be good in 
itself and have a worthy object. The self denial 
becomes thus not wholly selfish, and Lent becomes a 
season borrowed from the whirling days and months 
in which to make psychical repairs. 



[45] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS 

One hears less now than formerly about New 
Year's resolutions. Ridicule, cartoonists, and para- 
graphers are, no doubt, killing the custom; but prob- 
ably in the privacy of their own hearts people make 
as many good vows as ever. To speak of the vows 
would be to court laughter; but one can resolve to 
reform and break the resolution and no one be the 
wiser, if nothing is said. In the aggregate the good 
resolves made on the year's birthday, and one's own 
birthday, must have quite a beneficent influence upon 
us; but they are very unimportant compared to the 
daily, unceremonious, and often unthought-out reso- 
lutions of life. It is only our imagination that at- 
taches supreme importance to them. 



[46 J 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



NEW YEAR'S 

Now that New Year's Day is past one feels that 
the corner has been turned, and nobody doubts that 
spring is coming and finally lovely summer. But 
the really significant change took place several days 
ago. After the hours of daylight had been growing 
shorter and shorter, there came at last a little hesita- 
tion, the shortest day, and then a minute more of 
sunshine. And that precious minute was the cor- 
ner stone of the year to come, the first victory after 
many defeats, the first gain that light had made over 
darkness, in the long losing combat. It proved that 
the laws of the heavens could be depended upon, 
that light would conquer darkness, that warmth 
would overcome the cold, and that flowers would 
bloom where now is snow. The new year marks the 
turning point for men, but nature had already turned; 
and the twilight, that comes a little later now and 
that hngers each evening a Httle longer when the 
sky is clear, is a promise of victory, written in scarlet 
and gold, where all men may see, and read, and learn 
to hope. 



[47] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



CHRISTMAS 

It is human nature to want to be happy, and hap- 
piness is the main thing that men pursue, day in and 
day out, all the year round. It may be called by 
various names, as righteousness, honor, power, and 
wealth, but whatever its name it is happiness of some 
kind or other. Through the whole year, except 
Christmas day, the prize is sought in a human way. 
The contestant runs and runs to reach the end of the 
rainbow. He doesn't mind tripping up other people 
who threaten to pass him, and he never takes time to 
stop and admire the scenery as he hastens by. He 
does not even wait to catch his breath, and every lit- 
tle stone in his path, or small ascent, he magnifies an 
hundred fold because he thinks it delays him. And 
all the time the end of the rainbow seems just before 
him, like the mirage of a desert oasis, and he sees 
other runners tumbhng into it and picking up bags 
of bliss. But when, breathless, he overtakes these 
fellows, he finds that the end of the rainbow is still 
ahead, and that what he thought were bags of bKss 
are only stones, which the runners are throwing out 
of their way. They, too, see phantom runners reach- 
ing the phantom goal, and when he who thought them 
phantoms reaches them, they try to trip him up, 

[48] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



and so prevent his reaching the end of the rainbow. 
And he pushes them back, and they wrestle in the 
path, and seem, to those who are far behind, to be 
tumbhng into the arc of promise! It is a weird, 
strange race, and httle the wonder that the runners 
do not reach the goal. There are a few who take 
things easily, who do not worry about the goal, but 
who, sitting by the wayside, see the rainbow colors 
all about them, and are perfectly content. But these 
men are very few. Now, on just one day in the year, 
new rules govern the race. The contestants try to 
help, instead of to delay, one another. They try to 
make others happy instead of winning happiness for 
themselves; and lo! A miracle happens. The end 
of the rainbow comes to them. On no day in the 
year are so many people happy as on Christmas day, 
and yet on that day human rules are suspended and 
we try to make others happy. When a star's light 
shines through the atmosphere it is refracted to one 
side, and if we looked directly toward the star noth- 
ing would brighten the darkness. But look to one 
side of the star, and the star appears ; try to win hap- 
piness for others and you win it for yourself. It is 
the great rule given divinely to those who cannot 
escape the social law of refraction; and yet only on 
one day of the year is it followed by all — and that is 
Christmas Day. 



[49] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



CLASS DAY POEM 

Bertram-like the poet slept, 
Or seemed to sleep and saw 

A weeping spirit-maiden stand 
And hesitate to draw 

So near, though, with upHfted hand, 
She pleaded love, not awe. 

Oh, beautiful the vision was, 
And like two stars her eyes 

From tender, liquid depths shone out, 
And laughed at his surprise. 

Until a wandering cloudlet doubt 
Passed where the star beams rise. 

The poet started in his sleep. 

"Oh fair one, cease to mourn!" 
The vision turned, but as the sun 

Begems the dews of morn, 
A tender smile seemed just begun — 

Then died as it was born. 

She passed, and other visions came; 

But none so fair as she 
Who, in the moment that she paused, 

[50] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Had smiled entreatingly, 
And left him wondering what had caused 
Her going mom^nfully. 

Then, arms outstretched, the poet cried, 

"Oh, come to me again, 
I fain would see thy smile once more. 

And chase away thy pain; 
Would feel thy presence as before, 

And make thee queen, to reign." 

He listened, and the place was filled 
With low and plaintive chords, 

The throbbing of the harpstrings they, 
Almost like human words ; 

And then they slowly passed away. 
Like notes of soaring birds. 

Enrapt the dreamer stood, and lo! 

Just as the last strain died, 
A voice rang out, clear, pure and sweet. 

He felt her at his side I 
He listened, kneeling, at her feet: 

And thus the vision cried : 

*Tn vain thou ask'st. It cannot be: 

Thine own ideal am I, 
The offspring of thine eager heart — 

[51] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



A wish, a yearning sigh 
Uncaptured by the sculptor's art 
And only born to die!" 

She sobbed; he felt her hot tears feill, 

But ere he could embrace 
The vision in his loving arms, 

She vanished from the place: 
Yet turned, and showed once more her charms, 

The smile upon her face. 

Up rose the poet with new zeal. 

New purpose in his eyes. 
No dreamer, now, upon his knees ; 

But running for a prize ! 
Yet ever, as her hand he'd seize, 

The vision onward flies! 

And evermore the pleading look, 

The tear-dimmed April smile. 
Impelled him on o'er life's rough ways; 

Or mountain or defile. 
So, eager, scorning human praise. 

He pressed on, mile by mile. 

At length the path abruptly ceased; 

Foot-sore and weary grown. 
Where at its edge Death's river flows, 

[52] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



He fell with dying moan. 
Beyond, the lovely vision rose, 
And knew him as her own ! 

And lo! across the sombre waves 
Straight to his side she sped. 

And she, for whom he'd done his best, 
But who had ever fled, 

Now on her fair, soft, heaving breast, 
With tears, had laid his head — 

His head, now moist with dews of death; 

While on his brow she wound 
The leaves of laurel and of bay. 

And with her arms around 
Him thus, though dead, he lay 

A Poet Victor-Crowned. 



[53] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



GRANDMOTHER'S BALL DRESS 

Touch it with dainty fingers, hft it with loving care ; 
Shake out the soft folds gently fearing the lace may 

tear. 
Long has it slept forgotten — grandmother's party 

dress, 
Dreaming of balls and weddings, dreaming her old 

success. 

Notice the flowers embroidered over the thin white 

skirt; 
Somebody's hands were tireless, somebody's eyes 

were hurt. 
Short is the waist — a hand's breadth, yet it is 

figured too. 
How many stopped to notice, — grandfather, say, 

did you? 

Grandfather does not answer, portraits must silent 

be. 
But surely the dress remembers whether 'twas that 

night he 
Danced with the girl who wore it, whispered his love 

and heard 
Just a faint breath in answer, wonderful httle word I 

[54] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Look, even now this whisper flutters the film of lace? 
Sees it in us the sequel to grandfather's earnest face? 
That is too much to ask it; what can a wee dress 

know 
Save that a sweet girl wore it, once in the long ago? 

Beautiful brown haired maiden, plenty of beaux 

around 
Trying to win her favors, desperate when she 

frowned ; 
Beautiful eyes that sparkled, heart that was ever 

warm, 
That is the way it knewher,boundtoher tall,slightform. 

Prithee, sweet Juliana, weren't you a little vain 
Under the lamps aswinging, so many beaux in train, 
(Splitting your dances bravely, smoothing your 

dainty gown. 
Knowing that it was pretty,) even with beaux cast 

down? 

Grandmother's grandchild wears it. Some one has 

asked a dance. 
He is an old beau's grandson, seeking the beau's 

lost chance. 
After the dance is granted — Ah, the old dress will 

dream 
Still of sweet Juliana, still of an old love dream. 

[55] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



A BALLAD OF THE SEA 



"Fair West wind when you leave me, 
Blowing over the sea, 
Sing him my song of evening, 

Bid him 'Good Night' for me; 

"Tell him I held you an instant 
Tight in my loving arms, 
Gave you a kiss, insistent. 

Though you defied my charms; 

"Fill out his sails then, de£ir one, 
With soft breath calm the sea, 
Whisper my prayers and feeiring — 

He'll know that you came from me." 



II 



Swiftly seaward sped the love fraught breeze, 

Fast and faster still it blew. 
Till the great blue waves were white with foam 

Where its flying feet broke through. 

[56] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



And the vessel bearing the dear one 

Scudded swift before the gale, 
With its decks all cleared for solemn rites, 

And the wind behind its sail. 

But the captain ordered, 'all sails down' 
And the wind no longer blew — 

It had caught the ship, and calmed the sea. 
And had other work to do. 

And the captain ordered, 'Hands on deck,' 
And the anchor dropped at eve. 

So the anchor dropped at set of sun. 
When the stars its watch relieve. 

Like a phantom ship the vessel lay 

In the quiet, twilight sea; 
And the stars bent low o'er sailless yards 

Which the waves rocked dreamily. 

At the starboard rail the sailors met 

And the captain said a prayer, 
For the dear one's form was cold and still 

Though the wind still tossed its hair ; 

And they let him down with sailor's tears, 
For the sea's the sailors' grave, ^ 

But the wind still moaned or whispered low 
Love thoughts to the shrouding wave. 

[57] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE FIELDS OF FLANDERS 

The long straight fields of Flanders 
Are white no more with grain ; 

We are sowing them with crosses 
And tears fall as the rain. 

Though laborers are many, 

The crops too slow mature, 

For the harvest sought in Flanders 
Is peace that shall endure. 

We sow the fields with crosses — 
Each cross a resting place 

Where God's peace touches Flanders 
To fill a little space. 

Those spots of growing number, 
All wet with women's tears, 

Must bring at last from Flanders 
The harvest of the years. 



[58] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE DANUBE 

Far up in the Schwartz-wald region, 
A white cloud kissed the earth; 
And the tears it shed at parting, 
To a pure, clear stream, gave birth. 

The hills were all grim and solemn, 
The rustling trees too proud 
To notice the little streamlet, 
Born of a weeping cloud. 

But thoughtless it flowed on, laughing ; 
The pain which gave it birth 
Had made it, by Love's own magic, 
A river of ceaseless mirth. 

Until, where the green fields broaden, 
The stream more placid grows; 
And seeking the blue sky's image. 
You see where the Danube flows. 



[59] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



RIVERSIDE DRIVE 

River mists and skies of blue, 
Distant hills of changing hue, 
Whiffs of salt, a square rigged sail, 
Craft that leave in smoke a trail; — 
Splendid city, mighty stream. 
Morning walks that seem a dream 
Where a snowy, sculptured mass 
Whispers "Courage" as you pass. 



[60] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE SKY-SCRAPER 

Massive and gaunt, 
A thing to haunt 

One's dreams on a restless night, 
Your walls tower high 
To scrape the sky 

And steal from the street its light. 

Shadowy, grim, 

A peril dim 
That shuts out the stars and sun, 

You cast a shade 

To maike afraid — 
Behold, what a deed we've done! 

Yet you belong. 
So bold and strong. 

To things that must stir the heart. 
Your walls arise 
To touch the skies — 

Sprung up from the busy mart. 

In you I see 
The bold, the free. 
The courage to spread the wing. 

[61] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



So they aspire 
With souls afire 
Who scorn to the earth to ding. 

Then bid me rise 

To storm the skies, 
Progressing from mart to steir; 

From gloomy ways 

My head to raise 
Like yours, — where the calm lights are. 

And give me might 

To face the night 
Or breast the relentless storm, 

As calm as you, 

As patient, true — 
Unshaken, with heart as warm. 



[62] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE UPLAND MEADOW 

With canter, gallop, and head-toss we plunge through 

the sunbathed air — 
The scent of grass in our nostrils, the wind at play 

in our hair. 
The clouds are dancing before us, the shadows chase 

o'er the plain, 
Then on, and up to the corner, and back to the fence 

again! 

With canter, gallop, and head-toss, in proof that 

the day is ours, 
We kick up the dust behind us, we stop and pluck 

at the flowers. 
We look far down to the valley and sigh for folk who 

must work — 
Then on — a race to the corner, and back, with the 

stop a jerk! 

Or limbs grown tired in the gallop, we browse where 

the clover grows; 
We steep ourselves in its sweetness, in beauty take 

our repose. 

[63] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



The crack of whip and the sharp command — bridle, 

check, and rein 
Are far away. We are masters now. Ah, what a 

life to gain! 

They can't know life who just labor, ne'er shaking 

the traces free 
Nor reaching upland meadows, with broader vision 

to see 
How cramped the shadowy valley where the roads 

are narrow, while here 
There's all the pasture to run in, where sun and the 

stars are near. 

Then on, and up to the corner, and back to the fence 

again! 
The clouds are dancing before us, the shadows are 

in the plain! 
With canter, gallop, and head-toss we plunge through 

the sunbathed air. 
The scent of grass in the nostrils, behind us a kick 

for care! 



[64] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



HYMN FOR CHILDREN'S DAY 

Jesus, loving Jesus, 
Children come to Thee 
Marching and singing, 
Lovingly bringing 
Flowers gay to see. 
Jesus, loving Jesus, 

Children come to Thee. 

Jesus, loving Jesus, 

All the world's in flower. 
June is at brightest, 
Hearts are at lightest — 
Bless this happy hour. 
Jesus, loving Jesus, 
Children come to Thee. 

Jesus, loving Jesus, 
Though we're weak and frail. 
Round us is Thine arm 
Guarding us from harm — 

Thou wilt never fail, 
Jesus, loving Jesus, 

When we come to Thee. 



165 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE BIG TREE IN MUIR WOODS, 
CALIFORNIA 

Straight, out of the shadow, rises round, brown arm 
to Thee, 

Strong, Hthe and up-straining, expressing the heart 
of a tree. 

High, fgir in the sun-hght, Thy smile on the up- 
turned head, 

God, hear prayer from the forest and song from the 
canon bed. 



[66] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



SUNRISE 

The sun arose in his glory, 
Majestic, and grand, and slow — 
The king of earth and the heavens 
Looked down on the earth below. 

About him clouds in attendance, 
Awaiting their king's command, 
Arrayed in scarlet and purple, 
With lances of gold in hand. 

A mist arose from the valley — 
As smoke from the victims slain 
On Nature's numberless altars 
For her lord and his mighty train. 

The trees bent their heads in silence. 
The wind blew a trumpet blast. 
And heralds, riding white horses, 
Sped over the heavens fast. 

The sun had come in his glory, 
And Nature was all aglow — 
As — king of earth and the heavens — 
He gazed on the world below. 

[67] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



PERFECT LOVE 

Look into my eyes, my Love, and say good-bye. 

Love is not love, save as it hath made us strong 

To meet stern duties that remorseless throng 

For doing. Some may fail, but you and I 

Should be invincible, to hve or die; 

To wage firm battle against sin and wrong; 

To wait — that's hardest, dear, however long 

For joys withheld, and God to answer why; 

To say good-bye, if we must parted be. 

Had we but half loved, then we might complain 

For parting were miu'dered possibihty. 

But loving. Love, so perfectly, 

We dare to smile at parting's pain. 



[68] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



WINNIE DAVIS 

Under the Stars and Stripes, 

How still she lies; 
How pale the sunny face, 

Death-closed the eyes. 
Outside, a people mourn, 

Gray coats and blue; 
Bands play a solemn dirge; 

Tears aU unbidden surge 
In eyes still true. 

Under the Stars and Stripes, 

As a lily fair. 
There lies a girlish form — 

What else Hes there? 
HushI For "The Lost Cause'' she 

Stood brave and true. 
Faithful her woman's heart; 

Love filled, from hate apart, — 
Off, caps of blue I 

Half-mast the Stars and Stripes 

Over a girl! 
Stilled are triiunphal shouts; 

Old flags we furl, 

[69] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Warm hearts beat sadly 'neath 

Gray coats and Blue. 
"Our daughter," say the Gray; 

"Yours and ours; One to-day," 
Whisper the Blue. 



[70] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE WALTZ 

Oh, sparkling eyes of beauty 
Where love gleams shyly through; 
Oh, snowy throats fair rounded, 
By glistening jewels surrounded, 
And then by soft lace bounded, 
I yield myself to you! 

Oh, flowers on warm breasts dying. 
You thrill me with your scent! 

The music, swift entrancing; 

The lights the scene enhancing; 

And Strength with Beauty dancing 
In love's abandonment — 

Oh, yielding forms of beauty. 

Oh, feet that spurn the floor — 

While grace each move's adorning. 

Who cares for Time's cruel warning? 

Let's dance on till the morning — 

Dance on, — and round once more ! 



[71] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



A RAG BAG 

A little bit of silk and a tiny bit of lace, 

Some calico, some linen, a veil that touched her face; 

And here's a piece of ruffle that might have clasped 

her throat — 
That beautiful, that tender, that snowy little 

throat! 

Last winter at a party she wore a gown of this; 
I told her that I loved her and slyly stole a kiss. 
The roses on her bosom weren't half as fair as she 
When in that gown of pure white silk she said she 
cared for me. 

The flowers were aU about her, the music sounded 

low. 
The dancing was half over, we thought we ought to 

go, 
But I — oh, weU, no matter! I'U keep the piece of 

silk. 
It knows the whole sweet story — that dainty piece 

of silk. 

This lace, ah, sad remembrance ! We'd had a lover's 

fight. 
She said it aU was over — I stayed awake all night. 

[72] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



But next day, when I saw her, I claimed that I had 

slept 
Until that tear-bathed bit of lace told me that she 

had wept. 

And so the lacen fragment we'll put away, my dear. 
That calico, you're holding, an apron was last year. 
And 'round her waist she tightly would draw its 

lucky strings, — 
Oh yes, I want to save it among the other things. 

The linen, well, that Knen perhaps is from the case 

Which held the downy pillow, which held her sleep- 
ing face; 

And then the veil which touched lips where only 
love has pressed. 

Why, take the veil and linen and put them with the 
rest! 

You think I'm foolish, do you, and you'd exchange 

for tin 
Romantic little fragments I wrap my mem'ry in? 
Ah, well, she smiles more wisely, for she knows one 

who knows 
A bride who's unromantic, but keeps last winter's 

rose I 



[73] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE TIRELESS SENTINEL 

'A tree had grown in the neglected moat of the old, 
walled, French town." 

"Ho! outpost, what are the tidings? 
What see you on the plain? 

From the moat run dry 

Shout back the cry I 

Is't fight or fly — 
Can we make stand again?" 

The outpost stooping and straining, 
Peers far across the plain. 

"I see outspread 

A miUion head 

In lines," he said — 
"A field of golden grain." 

"Look, outpost, see those campfires 
Far scattered o'er the plain !^' 

"I've missed no light. 

The stars to-night 

Are wondrous bright — 
They gleam above the grain." 

[74] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



"But, outpost, what those footfalls? — 
Who marches in the plain? ^' 

"I hear," he said, 

"A stealthy tread" — 

He bowed his head — 
"Love walks where men were slain." 

"Then, outpost, why yet stand guard; 
Your patience, what, denotes?" 
"With carried arm 
To still alarm. 
For none shall harm 
Where poplars watch in moats." 



[75 [ 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



WHEN PHYLLIS IS IN TOWN 

When PhyUis is in town the city is no longer aus- 
tere and dignified. It becomes bewitching. Love 
is always full of sweet surprises, but at this time one 
may chance on a surprise at any moment and at any 
turn — for PhylUs may be there! When Phyllis is 
in town the very streets are glorified because she 
walks upon them; the trolley cars are possible char- 
iots since her dainty foot may mount the steps; 
and every closed carriage is worth looking into, lest 
her dear face be hidden in its shadows. You cannot 
know whether she may not be just around the cor- 
ner, and whether, most tantalizing secret, she be in 
the crowd before you or behind you! Because she 
may be anywhere, her presence pervades the city. 

When Phyllis is in town, the windows of the 
florists tug at heart-strings and at purse strings; 
the confectioners' tempting trays plead sweetly for 
the little mouth; the windows of the miUiners un- 
accustomedly attract, for in them are plumes, of 
which one may get on Phyllis's hat; the windows of 
the jewelers fascinate, for in them are wedding- 
rings ; and as to the windows of the great department 
stores, showing petticoats galore — ah, what thump- 
ing of the heart, what furtive glances, lest Phyllis 

[76] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



be somewhere looking I Shall we ever see Phyllis and 
such things together ? Can the thought be ventured ? 

When Phyllis is in town the music of her voice is 
in every tingle of the telephone, because — perhaps 
— she asked that it should ring; the crowds are 
gayer and walk more blithely, since she may be there; 
and the church has a strangely romantic fascination 
where Phyllis sings, demurely listens, or kneels in 
prayer. Dear Phylhs, what has she to pray for if it 
be not to intercede for you I 

When Phyllis is in town, the changes of the 
weather create a picture-gallery. It never rains that 
you do not have a vision of tight curls, a halo of 
unbrella, a rain-coat and the lower portion of a little 
pair of shoes. The skies are never blue and the 
weather warm, that you do not see the fluttering 
flounces of a summer gown that tantalize and fasci- 
nate by their unsteadiness. And when the snow 
flies and the wind blows cold, two eyes peer laugh- 
ingly above a muff. 

When Phyllis is in town, the world is such a great 
big funny spectacle for you and her to look and laugh 
at; and when she goes, it is such a dreary, solemn 
drama! 



[77] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



GOING AWAY 

There are few cities in this country where there 
are as many hterary clubs, or as much literary and 
social discussion as in Hartford, Conn. The result 
is easy to see. For a small city Hartford has fur- 
nished us with a surprisingly large number of litter- 
ati, and famous lawyers and clergymen. In one of 
the clubs the subject of discussion says the Courant, 
was "The Curse." One, who was fond of gardening 
and reading the Bible, said it was weeds and thistles, 
another more original and very serious, said, "It is 
going away." This was the first thing that the angel 
with the sword told Adam and Eve to do, and it has 
been going on ever since. Just as we begin to find 
what Eden is and what sort of trees grow in it, there 
comes a two edged sword, and away we have to go. 
There is a great deal of truth in this, but more, prob- 
ably, for some temperaments than others. Some 
people seem never so happy as when they are going 
away, but most of us have more of the vegetable in 
us. We have only to be in one place for a little while 
to become attached to it — to feel our affection, fike 
tendrils, winding about its persons and places and 
binding us to them with cords of friendships and love. 
The breaking away seems hard and cruel, the roots 

[78] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



that are holding us tightly must be cut ofF sharp, and 
the tendrils, be they ever so gently untwisted, will 
still hang in rings that, alas, are empty. Nor is the 
suffering selfish, only ; we must break or untwist the 
tendrils that others have wound about us, and how- 
ever charming and attractive the new places prove, 
there will still be spots in our being which the new 
cords do not touch; and our own affections will find, 
always, something in the new that differs from the old 
we had learned to love. There are times, of course, 
when going away is a relief. The gambler, who went 
to a Sunday School picnic when he thought he was 
going to a prize fight, was so glad to get back that 
he was glad he went; but even in his case the joy 
of the second departure was due to the misery of the 
first. We Americans are called nomadic, but most 
of us always turn up again, at the old stand, and 
ready to sing, with all our hearts, our national 
*'Home Sweet Home." 



[79] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE REPLY 

(Maud S. to Nancy Hanks) 

Dear Nancy, I've received your note, 
And Nan, it really made me titter ! 
You felt so gleeful when you wrote 
You never guessed the piU was bitter — 
At least to Sunol. I, of course, 
Know envy's far beneath a horse. 

Yes Nancy Hanks, you're very fast; 

But ah, Maud S. was once a hummer! 
I don't think Nancy, if you da'st 
You could your record smash this summer, 
As I did in a season dear, 
And four times — five times very near! 

Old horses, like old ladies, find 

Their former conquest quite diverting. 
My "wild oats" — youur's may prove that kind 
All blossomed laurels; but no more reverting! 
A "bud," you may think Maud S. slow, 
But money's made the old mare go! 

I only meant to show in this 
That though I follow where you're going, 

[80] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



You cannot call me "sulky," miss, 

Although I am tired with your blowing. 
Goodbye then, dear, you lead the race, 
2.07's the record — 2.08 my pace I 

2.08, three-quarters, how men stared! 

They even said, "Twas Maud S. taught her," 
When little boys your time compared — 
You claimed 2.07-><? 
Best wishes. Nan. You've earned my laud. 
In haste, your fast and close, friend, Maud. 



[81] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



PREMEDITATED SUICIDE 

I ask a glass of water or of claret or of beer ; 

I go to kiss a pretty maid; she turns away with fear. 

I eat some lemon-jelly that's been standing on the 

siU, 
And they tell me all are loaded — that they're 

warranted to kill. 

I put a pencil to my lips ; I gulp down pounds of air ; 
I visit eJI the cattle at the Wayback county fair. 
I buy a paper of a boy and handle dollar bills, 
And they tell me every one of these has that on it 
which kills. 

I'm not much up in science, but I know a thing or 

two; 
I know that if I do not eat or drink or kiss a few 
Of those fashionable dreaded germs I certainly will 

die, 
For I'd have to give up breathing to escape the 

bacilli. 

Bacteria, bacteria! I'm not afraid of you. 
The world will roll around the sun for gJl that you 
can do; 

[82] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



So on dollars and on papers and on kisses and on food 
Just hand me common bacilli — I'm not a science 
dude. 

And what's the use of living if you cannot eat or 

drink; 
If pretty girls and dollar bills, and even printer's ink 
And county fairs and pencils are only other terms 
For the rapid-transit system of the scientific germs? 



]83] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



KISSING 

Why is kissing so pleasant? 

Kesmack, kesmack! 
One gives away something — 
And gets it back! 
He purses his hps, 

She shuts her eyes, 
He presents their tips — 

To her great surprise! 
And then, in a moment, it's done — 
Or, rather, it's just begun. 

Kesmack, kesmack! 

There's never a lack 
Of reasons why kissing is pleasant. 

And kissing ought to be pleasant — 

Kesmack, kesmack! 
There are certain nerves to be tickled 

(And tickled back!) — 
The nerves of the jaws, 

The lips and teeth, 
If touching, cause — 

So pedants teach — 
Electrical currents that thrill, 

[84] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



Whatever or not the will. 

So smack! kesmack! 

There can't be a lack 
Of reasons why kissing is pleasant. 



[85] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



AUTUMN DAYS AND DAWN 

We have been having some perfect autumn days, 
the slow and tender beginning of the postlude of the 
year, the rest between the fruitage and dissolution, 
the tranquil twilight before the winter darkness 
drives away the summer light. And while these 
slow days fade, and the glory of the foliage falls, 
and the night draws closer to the morning, until the 
autumn sunshine gleams like a tinted, wavering opal 
caught in sombre setting, we enthuse about the 
beauty of the sunset; the softness of the color so 
magically painted by the autumn haze. But one 
should see the rarer, softer loveliness of the dawning! 
It is easy enough to see it now, and many have to, 
for as late as 6 o'clock it is at the full tide. The glow 
begins so mildly, in power and dominion rises so tran- 
quilly over the eastern sky, that gentleness more than 
irresistibleness seems its dominant quality. The 
little suggestion of color, the soft diffusion of the 
light, which is not yet a glow, the warming of the 
sky, are like the gentle crescendo of music. And as 
it rises the dominant chord appeairs, and thrills, 
and leads at last I It is not Aurora driving her 
chariot over the sky, but the dream of Aurora; 
and suddenly the dream, ever more vivid and lovely, 

1861 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



is realized. Then the last of the stars fade away, 
that beautiful gentle morning star that had shone in 
the East like the gleaming tip of a spear, born by a 
martial herald of day I There is a promise fulfilled, 
a new life begun. 



[87] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



ALUMNI AND COMMENCEMENT 

A college commencement is the meeting time on 
common ground of old and new alumni. Graduates 
of many years' standing, veterans in many a battle 
of life, gainers and losers of youths' ideaJs, here meet 
and alike extend the hand of fellowship and sympathy 
to the confident young men and women who have 
still so much to learn. Is it altogether just and 
wisest, then, that the younger graduates should do 
the talking? Theirs be the flowers, the diplomas, 
and medals; theirs to a slight extent the chance to 
show high ideals, to express high courage, and 
thought, and purpose; but more of the speaking 
should be from the victors in life's race, from those 
of the alumni whose fine deeds have raised high their 
own name and that of the college. Let theirs be 
the glory on commencement day. The college that 
gives them degrees of honor has not done all that it 
might. Let it ask them to speak to the young grad- 
uates and to their brother alumni on a question of 
the day, let it stimulate them to the best expression 
of their highest thought. More than half the pride 
of an institution, the glamor that it has for the young, 
is in the prominence of this and that alumnus. The 
names of such are inspiring to every student, their 

[88] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



careers a recommendation of the college. While 
they live they have the power, by throwing heart 
and soul into a ringing address, to create real intellec- 
tual enthusiasm among faculty, graduates, and un- 
dergraduates that shall redound to their own fame, 
to the honor of the college and to the betterment of 
the world. Broader and stronger than that of the 
speech of ever so bright a senior must be the influence 
of their addresses; for he who sees an ideal has 
something to dream of, he who wills to gain it some- 
thing to whisper; but he who has attained what 
youth dreamt and manhood willed should be asked 
to cry out his victory, to point the way with its pit- 
falls and aids to those who struggle in weariness, and 
to those others so full of hope but whose journey is 
only begun. Then we should see what a college 
education can do for a man; commencements would 
gain a popular interest; the young graduates would 
enter the contest of life with a better understanding 
of the fierceness of the struggle and the grandeur of 
victory; while, above all, the stimulus of the college 
to fine deeds and finer endeavor would extend be- 
yond the college halls, beyond the beginning of the 
new life to which commencement is the portal. 
The last lesson would be the most helpful and the 
grandest in the college course. 



[89] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE LOOK OF LOVE 

You ask me the color of her eyes, 
But though I often gaze I cannot tell. 

For whether joy and love and sweet surprise, 
Trembling there in maiden shyness dwell, 
Is the matter I most prize. 

You ask me if she be dark or fair. 

If she be tall or short, and what the tint 

Of her long, waving silken, sun-kissed hair; 
And though I look and, looking, know no stint, 
I have to say I do not care. 

For would I love her less if she were dead? 

Yet then I should not see her veiled eyes 
And all the color from her pale cheeks fled 

Would leave me not the beauty. Nor where lies 
Her still form would love's dreams be led. 

I still should love her, and in thought I'd see 
Not eyes of blue nor curling hair of gold. 

Nor estimate her height; but, calling me 

With some loved name, I'd hear her, and behold 
Her as she still is — untold ! 



[90] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



HER OPAL RING 

Like my lady's self is her opal ring, 
Reautiful and rare, bright and glittering. 
Brilliant as a jewel caught in golden band, 
(Like the opal's self on her snowy hand). 
Flashing as a star in a summer sky, 
Gleam my lady's eyes, when th'are others by. 

Like my lady's self is her opal ring, 
Beautiful and fair, mildly glittering. 
Soft as eyes that gaze into eyes that love. 
Tender as the glow of setting sun above. 
Lovely as a rose dying on the heart 
Is my lady's glance — all the world apart. 

Like my lady's self is her opal ring. 
Beautiful and rare, coldly glittering, 
Changing as the waves on a sea of blue. 
As a cloudy sky where the moon shines through. 
Yet, in every light, mid each changing tone. 
There still shines one ray born for me alone! 



[91J 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



TO MY LOVE 

Softly retreating the shadows, 
Chasing each other at will, 
Flee from the stab of the moonbeam 
Playing on casement and sill. 

Silently fly, Oh, ye shadows! 

Silently dance, Oh, ye beams! 

There a fair maiden is sleeping. 

There my beloved one dreams. 

Gently the breezes are blowing, 
Bending the trees as they pass. 
Softly the dew, in descending. 
Kisses the flowers and the grass. 

Silently faU, Oh, ye dew drops! 

Silently blow, gentle breeze ! 
There a fair maiden is sleeping — 

Quietly bend, oh, ye trees! 



[92] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



A LUNAR TELEPHONE 

The lamps of heaven are lighted, 
The pale moon smiles above — 

She smiles at me — waking, watching 
She smiles at my sleeping love. 

Oh moon! you know not yom' fortune. 
Or how could you scorn the treat 

Of seeing my love, forever, 
Of giving her kisses sweet? 

You kiss her cheek, and care not, 
You stroke her pretty hand — 

Oh moon! you are cold and heartless. 
But why don't you understand.^ 

Perhaps you do, for you send me 
For wires, some silvery beams. 

Through which my love I'll whisper 
For you to repeat in dreams. 



]93] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



MY CASTLE 

I own a most beautiful castle, — 

But its only *'a castle in Spain." 
Its wgJls are all ivied and hoary, 
And every stone has its story. 
A tale of my ancestors' glory. 

In my beautiful "castle in Spain." 

I walk in the park of my castle, — 
My mystic old "castle in Spain" — 

I walk with a girl tall and slender, 

I whisper my sentiments tender 

And bid her at once to surrender. 
Which she does — in my "castle in Spain." 

But here in my newspaper office, 

So far from my "castle in Spain." 

I find a great change in condition, 

I'm oppressed with a vague intuition 

That perhaps it was aU just a vision, 

And I'll ne'er see my castle again. 



[94 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



WITH SOME ROSES 

Oh, ye dainty, pretty rosebuds, 
Tinted with a sunset glow. 
As if Nature's blushes, captured, 
Lingered ere you let them go. 

How I envy you your fortune! 
Would that I were one of you I 
Just to feel her love around me. 
Then to die, as you will do. 

Rocked to sleep, as she will rock you 
With the motion of her breast; 
Kissed by all her gentle breathings, 
Thus to leave all love's unrest. 



[95] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE NEW YEAR 

When, with thought of the passing old year and 
the entrance of the new, we shout "The king is dead; 
long Uve the king!" do we realize with what accu- 
racy we speak? For the fact is, the calendar is our 
master, is the tyrant of the age. Fortunately, it is 
never passionate. We speak of time flying; but we 
know that it is not true. Leaf by leaf, steadily, 
quietly, never faster, never slower, the calendar 
meirks the passage of the days. One may have had a 
very happy yeair; but one cannot say that the ty- 
rant has been kind. He has been pitiless, merciless. 
The day we dreaded has come as surely and relent- 
lessly as the day we longed for. Stern, unyielding, 
unsympathetic, our tyrant — careless of good and ill, 
of joy and sorrow, of press of work or idleness — has 
been unmoved by any wish, and has ruled us with a 
tyrant's rod. The tyrant has, however, been abso- 
lutely just. Every day we looked for has come 
around, has come and gone precisely on scheduled 
time; and if we have not done all we meant to do on 
some occasion, it has not been from any deviation 
of the calendar from the precise programme outlined 
twelve long months ago. We have wished that the 
days and nights would hurry sometimes, we have 

[96] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



longed to detain them; but our tyrant never yields. 
Hung on the wall, standing on the desk, disguised in 
satins and silks, adorned with painted flowers, or in 
the guise of well-known men or women — ^we its min- 
ions, the clocks and watches its police — ^the calendar 
has been the tyrant of the ^ge. 

With so many the new year calendar is a Christ- 
mas present, that the sense of strangeness and the 
novelty have quite worn off by New Year's day, and 
so transition from the old year to the new is made 
with little shock or sense of wonderment. But 
whenever the new year calendar is taken for the first 
time in one's hands, it is with a very natural and fit- 
ting — ^if somewhat shamefacedly brief and hidden — 
mingling of curiosity and dread. Who has not, idly 
turning the pages, wondered which are the days that 
are destined to stand out in memory; which is to be 
the happiest and which the saddest day of the year; 
and what is to be the particular nature of its joy or 
grief.? A yellow journal of New York — which is to 
say one seeking popularity very desperately— has 
offered a prize to the reader who shall most accu- 
rately forecast the most notable events of 1898. The 
circumstance is evidence of how general is a secret 
wonderment regeirding what the opening year may 
have in store for individual and the world, what se- 
crets are enfolded in the calendar's non-committal 



[97] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



leaves, what will be our verdict when eJI its history 
is written, when the year's work is done. Some 
there are, curiously turning the calendar leaves, who 
pause all unconscious on a day that they will never 
see. But no warning is written on the page, no hint 
that there the calendar stops for them. 



[981 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



SUNSET . 

The sun had just set and all the western sky was 
aglow with yellow that shaded into orange. There 
was not a cloud to be seen, except far away to the 
north, where a thin gray film hung, like the blown 
away veil of a Quakeress. Overhead the brilliant 
western gold, speaking of glorious promise, faded by 
infmitely fine degrees into a soft and deepening blue ; 
and just in the midst of her dreamy sea the white 
moon rode, sedate and silent, with a single golden 
star, that might have dropped overboard, from her 
possible cargo of jewels. The air was still, clear, and 
cool, and in the quieter streets the snow glistened in 
the moonlight, just as it does in mid- winter. The 
night, too, was glorious, fulfilling in its peaceful 
serenity the promise of the evening. 



[991 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



IDOL REPAIRING 

A China correspondent writes to the Independent 
of the itinerant idoL repairers of the East. These 
men, journeying from temple to temple in the rural 
districts, repair the shrunken forms, broken legs and 
arms, worn whiskers, and cracked heads of the 
Chinese idols. The worshippers take the need of 
repairs on the part of their gods as a matter of course, 
and doubtless are filled with new zeal and devotion 
when the itinerant mender completes his labors. 
Usually the cost is met by one afflicted with an evil 
spirit, who thinks thus to rid himself of the unwel- 
come guest. What a blessing it would be if we could 
have idol repairers! What vast sums would gladly 
be paid the man who could set up again our fallen 
gods, who could give them the strength and beauty 
that they had when new! But we are more exacting 
than simple John Chinaman. We are not content 
that our deities should wear out, however hard we 
use them; and once worn their divinity is gone for- 
ever. How many times an idol slips and falls. It is 
not seriously, permanently, hurt. The Chinaman 
would mend the broken leg and set it up agaiUj but 
we lose hope and faith. A single slip destroys divin- 
ity, and henceforth we are unhappy believing that 

[1001 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



our idols have proved false. We should be happier 
in the long run if we did not expect in our gods more 
than flesh and blood can give; if we admitted the 
human tendency to error; and granted that, for all 
the slips, the heart might still be good, just as the 
scent is unharmed by crushing the flower, and the 
divinity of the Chinese idol undestroyed by its 
broken form. But while faith lasted it would be less 
high and pure, and it is something, though we end 
on earth together, to have been the one nearest 
heaven. 



[101] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



VACATIONS 

The Buffalo "Express" says: "Have an aim in 
your vacation," and there are no better words to 
say at a better time. There is nothing quite so 
dreary as a purposeless vacation, nothing so tiring 
as a loll. When you are at your desk, with a pile of 
work before you so high that you can hardly see the 
green fields, or hear the noise of the surf, or smell the 
pine woods, that all lie beyond ; it seems to you that a 
rest would be an ideal vacation. But unless you 
really are sick you will be happier for something to 
do. It does not make much difference what you 
do. Very likely your daily work does not shake the 
eEU'th; but even if it does, the earth doesn't expect 
you to shake it with no intermission, and you are 
quite free to do as you please on a vacation. And 
then, as the "Express" says, "The man who climbs 
a mountain for the mere sake of getting to the top, 
may not thereby offer anything to science or philan- 
thropy; but the chances are that in his own stimu- 
lated mental and physical condition he has done 
something toward the betterment of the human 
average." It sounds far-fetched perhaps, but any 
philosopher will say it is true. And of course that 
settles the matter. So, when you go off on your 

[102] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



vacation, have an object in view. Collect rocks 
or mosquitoes, ride a bicycle somewhere, fish as 
though you had to feed an army on a Friday, or 
walk and climb. Very likely the reason that Youth 
so prizes its vacation as compared with Age, is that 
Youth lets its energy drive it to something, while 
Age is lazy. One is tempted to think that the young 
people who work so hard for their fun, have, after all, 
the true secret of resting. 



[103] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



SUMMER AND LAZINESS 

With the coming of real summer a spirit of laziness 
comes over one. The Sandman of childhood, who 
used to go about throwing grains of sleepiness into 
our eyes, is a greater — if less mysterious — monster 
now. His breath is the soft South wind ; his costume 
includes a broad brimmed hat, tan shoes, and an 
outing suit. He catches us in his hammock net, 
and his destroying weapon — alas ! — is a novel. 
His method of procedure is interesting. It consists 
largely in a disintegration of society. All winter we 
have had a pride in keeping busy, do-nothingness has 
been a horror to us; society has forbidden us to 
"laze" in the evenings, organized clubs have re- 
quired our unremitting attention, subscription- 
papers have kept us busy earning the money that 
we felt it a duty to subscribe. No grass has grown 
under our feet. If we had a speire hour in the day 
some of us devoted it to self improvement, and the 
rest of us to the improvement of others. It depends 
upon your character whether you adopt humility 
and aspiration as your leisure hour virtues, or 
whether you choose to pose as a philanthropist, a 
patriot, and a charity worker. Somebody has said 
that all the world's best work is done in its leisure 

[1041 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



hours. We don't quite think that, because we think 
that the necessary work is truly the best, but we 
do think that a great deal of the culture, polish, and 
comfort of the world is the result of its leisure hours. 
And now, suddenly, society falls apart. The warm 
sun comes, and lo! The clubs are disbanded, the 
subscription papers cease going round, the eyenings 
are free, and the various integral parts of that great 
machine that has kept you jumping all winter are 
shipped to the seaside, the mountains, the lakes, — 
anywhere, that isn't at home. Some of them find 
in the summer places enough of the missing pieces 
to make a new machine, but those who stay at home, 
or go into the solitudes suddenly find themselves 
with many leisure hours. The improvement craze 
is over, though. The leisure time is only negatively 
improved in the mental rest and the building up of 
vigor for the winter. We Americans five so hard 
during nine or ten months of the year that the holi- 
day season should be more strictly observed here 
than anywhere else — and we are not sure that it 
isn't, though there is still some room for improve- 
ment. 



105 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



PATHS (FOOTPRINTS) 

We city folk cannot see much of the poet-sung 
trails of the wood and paths of the country, but on 
a snowy winter's evening, or in the morning, we can 
successfully study the paths of a busy people. It is 
an interesting subject and well worth while, if it 
happens you never before have thought of it. If 
soon enough after the storm you may see even the 
footprints of the pioneer; and with that and the 
character of the trail to aid you, why shouldn't you 
form most accurate theories, compose little stories 
founded on indisputable facts? If there is any 
doubt you can follow the steps until they turn in 
somewhere or are lost in a better beaten track. 
Perhaps two pairs of shoes have left a mark, and 
you can use your detective qualities in deciding 
whether they went together, whether one was a 
woman's and one a man's ; whether they ever paused, 
and if so, why.^ Oh, you can have a beautiful time 
if there are the impressions of two kinds of shoes, 
pointed in the same direction! If they go in oppo- 
site ways it is interesting to look for the point where 
they passed, and when you get to it you will have to 
decide whether the owners stopped and spoke. And 
all the time, as you discover with great surprise 

[106] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



when you turn, you have been making a path your- 
self! It does a fellow good, at such a time to stand 
on the step and look back at the path he has made. 
He'll find his sins, his indecision, his dreaminess, his 
possible toeing-in; all plainly written behind him. 



[107J 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



TREES AND SPRING FOLIAGE 

A child walking in a forest is quoted as saying: 
"Do the trees admire each other's new clothes?" 
It is an essentially poetic notion, and recalls Macau- 
lay's dictum that one must be a child before one 
can be a poet. Only, nowadays, if the poet really 
meant it, and felt the answer to his question, he 
might not ask it; and if he did ask it one would 
suspect him of posing. There is that in the attitude 
of the freshly clothed trees that is marvelously life- 
like. Doubtless everyone has enough of the poet in 
him to notice it, only most of us are too sophisticated 
to let ourselves dwell on the thought. We hear 
them rustle with half whispered pleasure, we see 
them wave their branches as though trying the 
effect of light and shade on different parts, we see 
their tall heads bend this way and that in gracious 
admiration, and we notice that the cherry tree no 
sooner dons its fair spring bonnet than the peach, the 
apple, and the pear tree follow, each making a slight 
departure, with a little more pink or a little more 
white, from the admired bonnet of its neighbor, and 
yet keeping so near it as to be unmistakably in the 
fashion. There is a little criticism now and then, 
we suppose; and quite an unmistakable effort on 

[1081 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



the part of the maples, the birches, and the chest- 
nuts to outdo one another; but on the whole the 
feeling seems to be one of joy, and the early spring a 
sort of gala occasion. The same thing could be 
noticed no doubt, and perhaps to greater extent, 
among the wild flowers, had we city folk half the 
chance. It is the first of "The Season" for all vege- 
tation, and it isn't until midsummer that the belles 
of the field and the wood begin to look jaded and 
worn, and the fine gowns a bit rusty from use. The 
ardor of the lover-sun has then become wearisome, 
and the distant admiration of night's cool stars is 
welcomed. 



109; 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE PEN 

Oh, cherish the ink-covered pen, 
And think of the women and men 
Whose fortunes its made or undone, 
Whose hearts it has broken or won — 
That Httle obedient pen, 
That steel httle ink-covered pen! 



1101 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE MAID OF THE MIST 

Born at the fall of the waters, 

Where the great pure stream descends 

To a wild embrace, with a laughing face 
And a love that naught transcends; 

Born where the river had fallen. 

Where it lies in weary sleep, 
And where Death's hands rest on its placid breast 

And no cry comes out the deep ; 

Sprung from the tears of the river, 

Where the dead and living kissed, 
She at love's own sign, like a thing divine. 

Has aris'n — the Maid of Mist! 

Mutely appealing, in anguish 

She is waving sinuous arms. 
While her garments white, as they flutter light, 

Only half conceal her charms. 



[Ill] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE WIND ON THE PRAIRIE 

I hear a distant warwhoop, 

The rush of stealthy feet; 
I feel the breath of runners — 

Of runners who are fleet. 
I'd fain escape, but strong arms 

Are clutching from behind — 
The spirits of dead Indians 

Are riding on the wind. 



[112] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



STARS 

Oh beautiful stars of the heavens 
So peaceful and calm in your home, 

Like jewels on the Infinite bosom 
Ye glimmer, the lights of our dome I 

Ye count not the miles in the ether ; 

Ye know not the struggles below — 
Our sorrows, contentions, and strivings; 

Forever untroubled ye glow I 

So silent, so steadfast, unchanging! 

The same God whose power ye declare, 
**Directeth our paths" through the shadows, 

Our loved ones are safe in His care. 

And thus, gentle watchers of ev'ning. 
While lovers and loved share thy light 
They feel that the same God is o'er them — 
The same stars are bidden: "Good Night!'* 



[113] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



THE FOUR WINDS 



The East 



From out of the glorious East, 

From skies that are crimson and gold, 

From the beautiful gates of the great unknown 

Where the morning sun in its splendor shone, 

Thou ridest, oh breath of the East, — 

The symbol of birth, behold I 

The Xorth 

With shout and the roar of the gale 
Thou travellest down from the North — 
Thoughts of tempest and storm in thy throbbing brain. 
Prizes thou by night and by force must gain, 
To battle thou journey est forth, — 
Oh, symbol of strength, prevail I 



114] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



The South 

But thou from the South hath stolen, 
With whispers of love and wine. 
Ah, the light that gleams in a maiden's eyes 
Has been fanned to flame by thy languorous sighs,- 
By thee, from the Southland stolen. 
Oh symbol of youth divine I 

The West 

Then over the fields of the West, 
Advancing as grain stalks bend, 
Where the ling'ring sun with its blushes red 
Throws a last long kiss ere the day is dead, 
Thou comest to teU of final rest — 
Of strife and of love at end. 



[115] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



OCTOBER-WALKING, SUNSETS, AND 
DEATH 

What weather for walking is that of these bright 
October days! And how few persons really walk 
in them! All sorts of athletic exercises are the fash- 
ion now; all sorts of new, strange, and unnatural 
modes, while the good old-fashioned one of walking 
is quite overlooked or ignored. In the city the cars 
take one anywhere, so swiftly and smoothly, that 
we think we have no time to walk ; and in the coun- 
try it is so much easier to "hitch up," that almost 
everybody rides a mile instead of walking it. But 
there is nothing after aU quite as good as a walk, as a 
careless, easy stride for a few miles in the city or the 
country; when one can fill one's lungs with the brac- 
ing summer air, and feast one's eyes on the gorgeous 
coloring of the trees and twilight skies. It is the 
time that comes but now and then to all of us, when 
man and nature are brought face to face, when the 
divine in man recognizes the divinity of nature, and 
he feels his soul expanded and uphfted, while all the 
petty cares of Hfe flow fast away, and death itself — 
life's hardest trial because it is life's antithesis— seems 
as beautiful, calm, and natural as the coming of 
night, starry and mysterious, after the heat of day. 

[116] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



And the new world, the new life, which the dying 
enters, seems to lie just beyond that glorious, golden 
portal of the west — unruffled, unlimited, and where 
there is no darkness in the night. 



[117] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



HOPE AND THE NEW YEAR 

In a New Year's editorial the Philadelphia Press 
says: "The world expects every man and woman to 
make a success of his or her life. Failure is not 
hoped for." Undoubtedly this is true. Just a 
moment's thought will show it, and yet most of us 
go through life on a different plan. In fighting and 
struggUng for success one imagines that he is fighting 
all the rest of the world, and that he is his own only 
ally. This is very flattering to himself, for in reality 
he is fighting no one but himself, and the world 
merely looks on in a friendly sort of way, not, as a 
whole, particularly interested until one side or the 
other seems pretty sure to win; but ready to cry 
"bravo" whenever a good stroke is made, or to 
point the finger of scorn when a blow is clumsily 
dodged. Of course the world has its favorites, but 
favoritism never yet won a genuine battle, and it 
would be absurd to imagine that there is not room 
for twice as many successes as there now are. Prob- 
ably the thing that makes New Year's day pleasanter 
than the last day of the old year, is the element of 
hope. The year that is past has nothing but experi- 
ence; the year to come has nothing but hope; and 

[118] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



there never yet was a man who did not prefer an ex- 
pectation to a reality. Realities always have their 
drawbacks. When we hope for a thing we omit the 
disagreeable featm^es and looking into the new year 
we hope nothing but success; while, looking 
back on the old, we see ever so many failures. 
It may be added, too, that every one lives in the 
future. The present is just as hard a thing to dis- 
cover, as the scientists' atom, for the instant you find 
it, it is past. You can't think quick enough to catch 
it before it is gone; and the past, which is history, 
has always been a "grind" as compared with the 
possible future. 



[119] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



SUMMER AND AUTUMN 

There is little evidence yet in nature, to the un- 
trained eye, that summer is passing; though here 
and there in the country a red glow on exposed 
branches of the maple, or on the chmbing woodbine, 
is like a promise of autumnal fires; and the longer 
evenings, bringing more and more of day time into 
shadow, whisper that summer nights are gone. 
Without violence or jar the change steals upon us, 
and where fair Summer stood and smiled we soon 
shall find the darker Autumn. Though Summer 
will still linger a while. There is just the suggestion 
now of Autumn's coming, the beginning of anticipa- 
tion, the knowledge that hot days are numbered, 
that four weeks at most will bring us Autumn. Yet 
Summer still is fair and strong, still wears a gown of 
unfaded verdure, yet will show youth's ardor ere she 
steals away. Her kisses now are of farewell, how- 
ever, as sweet, as long, impulsive as before, and yet 
farewell. The harvests tell that summer's work is 
nearly over, and when the page of August is torn 
from the calendar we know that a turning point of 
the year has come. We shall not see the transforma- 
tion, but before September leaves us Summer will 
have fled. There are four corners in the year. 

[120] 



THE CITY SLEEPS] 



Three of them are curved, so that you may not know 
just when you turn them — only when the calendar 
first reads "April," first reads "June," first reads 
"September," you know that there has been a mighty 
change. From December into January the turn is 
sharp. 



:i2ij 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



OCTOBER 

One of the most beautiful months of the year is 
drawing to its close. There would be no object in 
telling the number of days on which the sun has 
shone, in computing the unusueilly high mean tem- 
perature, or the absence of storms, of gales, or of 
sudden and violent changes in temperature. We are 
aware of it all, and look back on the vanishing month 
as one in which Nature has been almost perfect in 
our sight. Her work of the year was over, the winter 
snows had been melted, the tender flowers of spring 
had been carefully nurtured, the trees had put forth 
their fresh green leaves, the fields had waved with 
ripening grain, and the delicate blossoms of May had 
ripened into the luscious fruits of September. There 
was little more to be done. Like a painter whose 
picture was nearly finished Nature has fingered over 
the finishing touches, has put in the last rich tints, 
the last flakes of light and the last fines of shade. 
Her magic wand with which for six months she has 
made the earth bring forth food, and serve purposes 
of utility in which beauty should be only secondary, 
has this month touched the fields and woodlands with 
lovelier purpose, and bade them don their gayest 
colors, for the work of the year is done. The maples 

[122] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



have wrapped themselves in gold, the sumach 
in streamers of red. The soft maples have blushed 
at the farewell kiss of the dying fall, or caught, in 
their leaves, the red glow of the summer sun. The 
oaks, their foliage green and bright as in early June, 
have bordered the edge of their leaves with crimson, 
and the country stands still and breathless in her 
gay attire. But now white Death is coming, and 
his cold breath, and the whir of his flying garments, 
will announce that beautiful Nature is dead. Then 
the gay robes will be put aside, the leaves will fall 
from the trees; and meadow, field, and woodland 
will cry, "Let me die, too." And they will die, and 
the heavens will spread a white pall over the stricken 
earth; which time will change to the birth-robes of a 
new born year. 



123 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



EASTER AND CHRISTMAS 

Easter and Christmas are the two great days of 
the Christian year, the two most broadly observed, 
and into whose observance Christendom most throws 
its heart and loving spirit. Their conamemoration 
has increased of late, as religion has swung back 
from the stern plainness of Puritanism. And as 
signal fires once traveled swiftly, striding giant-like 
from hill to hill, so now the advancing sun of Easter 
morn and Christmas is accompanied by a wave of 
song, of anthem and of carol, that belts the earth 
with gladness as the sun has belted it with the light 
of the gala, holy day. But in the observance of 
Easter and of Christmas, one notices a wide differ- 
ence of tendency. Christmas is, and always has 
been, more secularized. No doubt something of this 
is due to the circumstance that Easter must always 
fall on Sunday. But more, we believe, is in the spirit 
of the day. The central figure of religion's Christ- 
mas is a Mother with new born Child, divine indeed 
and beautiful, but not beyond the power of man to 
image. The central figure of the Easter is a risen 
Lord, death vanquished in such a way as only faith 
can see. Joy goes naturally with the thought of 
birth, tears with the thought of death, solemn and 

[124] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



awful mystery that a symbol still more wondrous 
turns at Eastertide to holy gladness. There is no 
temptation in the true spirit of Easter to feast and 
make merry. Love that laughed at Christmas 
smiles now, with trust, through tears. One gets the 
difference even in the Biblical account, where the 
birth is heralded as "tidings of great joy;" and the 
resurrection with the words, all comforting, all pity- 
ing, "Woman, why weepest thou?" 

The difference in the popular celebration of Christ- 
mas and of Easter is of beautiful significance. In 
the churches the difference is more in thought than 
expression. On both occasions the joyousness of the 
music is the main feature, and as far as the sound 
goes there is not so very much difference. But in 
the popular celebration of the day there is a very 
sharp distinction between the joyous faith of Easter 
and the secularized delight of "Merry Christmas." 
The difference in the feeling regarding the two days 
here finds untrammelled expression; and the world 
that would mix hanging stockings, a fabled, jolly, 
toymaker saint, mince pies, and plum pudding with 
the sweet Christmas story; mingles with its Easter 
feeling nothing foreign to the wonder of the miracle 
itself; and recognizes, with a true and beautiful 
intuition, that only God's own flowers, the purity of 
the lilies especially, can express the solemn, the beau- 



[125] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



tiful, mysterious gladness of that day. Over the 
Cross the flowers are wound, into memorial wreaths, 
or gathered in beautiful offerings. Nor at the church 
alone, but by individual to individual they are given, 
carrying that direct, comforting, wonderful, question 
that for hundreds of years has stilled the twanging 
chords of breaking hearts, or touched them into har- 
mony with the triumphant song of her love. They 
are a recognition by the world, which is prone to 
magnify its own capacity, that for once nothing of 
its own make or planning is fair enough and pure 
enough to express its feelings, in the holy joy of 
Easter. 



[1261 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



LONGEVITY, AGE AND DEATH 

There can be no doubt that the interest in long- 
evity is very great and general, but it is equally clear 
that the interest is not in old age, per se; but in the 
postponement of dying. Nobody wants to be old; 
but perpetual youth is not to be found, and so the 
only alternative is death. Between death and age 
the world grabs with pitiful eagerness at feeble and 
tottering years of deafness and blindness — ^not from 
love, but from fear of the unknown. It faces weak- 
ness, sorrow, loneUness, and misunderstanding; it 
chooses an easy chair and a broken tea-cup, when it 
might be "sitting on a cloud a-singing," where sor- 
row and tears will be no more! The real secret of 
Uving, then, is dying. Teach us not to keep a feeble 
soul and a feeble body together by some pitifully 
fragile thread, that the smallest excitement or activ- 
ity will sever; but teach us to die calmly, bravely, 
and gladly when life's best days are over; to take 
the step without dread or fear that leads from the 
youth that is passing to the youth immortal. That 
will be a lesson well worth learning, well worth 
teaching. It wiU exalt humanity by breaking down 
the barrier that those who cling to terrestrial life 
would put between it and eternity. Which is most 

[127] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



inspiring, most ennobling, in which is the secret of 
life best solved, in the career of the dame who lived 
to be a hundred-and-ten, and was able to smoke a 
pipe of tobacco every morning and to be wheeled 
out of doors for a half-horn* until she was 105, bur- 
dening her great-great-grandchildren; or in the 
career of the young woman, or man, cut off in the 
prime of life, in the rush of activities, and laid to rest 
by weeping friends to be thought of forever as loving, 
unselfish, and busy? Which of these survives long- 
est in the thought of the world? 

Let us learn, then, to die; the lesson will surely be 
needed; and if we live, let us live as well as we can, 
without fear of shortening our career, for the dying 
day is bound to come, and, whatever the tombstone 
says, one lives in deeds and in love, not years. 



[128] 



THE CITY SLEEPS 



TOMBS 

Ah, why are we so slow to learn the lesson that 
there is but one tomb which is truly noble, but one 
mausoleum that time does not corrode? We see 
again and again among our contemporaries and in 
history that only he is great in death who is great in 
glorious memory; that love is purer than alabaster, 
more lasting than granite, more precious than jewels. 
We who would raise a beautiful sepulcher for our- 
selves should raise it in fine deeds, fine thoughts, and 
fine words; and then no spire of stone will rise so 
high as the inspiration of the memory we leave; no 
masses at high altar make so powerful a benediction 
as the tears of those who momrn. A little of nature's 
greensward then, a bit of "God's acre," where the 
flowers may bloom above us, is resting place noble 
enough for the noblest, if their memory but abide 
with the Hving! That spot may well be more conse- 
crated than all the dusty tombs with broken nose 
and fingered efiBgies that fill the royal chapels of 
Westminster. 



[129] 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Oct. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 



